Worst Days and Prankster Ways
by A. Murray
Summary: As every best worst day does, Slinks' began with a rainstorm... and Spot's stolen cap. Dedicated to and inspired by the Slinker herself. Completed!
1. Chapter the First

_Disclaimer: _I claim words, not Newsies. Everything belongs to people and personages that are not me. Sue not.

_Dedication: _To Ali who reminds me, suddenly and in so many ways, of the Cheshire Cat. This is for you and, in that strange silly way, about you or rather someone who I consider an extension of you. Though I feel I have not done the Slinks her proper justice, I sincerely hope you enjoy anyway.

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_We Begin…_

As every best worst day of one's life does, Slinks' began with a rainstorm.

Wet and sodden had never been a favorite fashion of the Slinker. She usually took to the slightest form of precipitation as would a cat or a dead duck: not well at all. To be sure, the ability to coexist with any form of water –other than a nice warm bath- resided somewhere in the innards of Slinks but she had neither the knowledge of its whereabouts nor the patience to find it.

So it was that she opted for a hike through the heavy droplets back to her home, the Lodging House, and utilized her now useless papers as a make-shift umbrella. Wet print slid from the soggy paper in illegible clumps along her arms and down the open collar of her shirt, marking her skin in misshapen letters and scattered punctuation.

Brooklyn had been her home for more years than she had fingers and though the wind was strong and the rain fierce the streets were no problem to navigate. Slinks darted around familiar buildings and sidestepped ominous puddles with surprising sureness of foot on the slick ground.

_Allow a Digression…_

The curtain was very soon to fall on the nineteenth century, blackening it into history. The whole of the world seemed awaiting their moment of applause with excitement and impatience, ready to commemorate one hundred years into the annals of the past and "remember when's".

But Slinks, like many she knew, strayed far from the worry. In the forgotten corners where their reality crowded, Brooklyn was still a messy, clunky cog in the machine of the world, oversized and shapeless. Days rolled by in changless waves. There were papers to sell and games to play and life to live and memories to make. With so much on a young person's mind it was understandable that such grand things like the turning over of the world would become faded and irrelevant.

_Returning…_

Slinks dropped her papers to the ground outside the door to the Lodging House. The fabric of the paper was now the consistency of very soggy oatmeal and it landed in a mountain of gray on the wet street. She felt a tug at their loss.

The foyer was warm and lit by a family of flickering lamps. From the hall and the stairway she could hear other voices; it seemed she was not the only one who had decided on profitless warmth over being both broke and wet. Slinks shook the water from her hair and twisted her shirt front. Rain ran from the dark cloth to the floor, amassing into a puddle of considerable width. She stepped over the miniature lake and clomped up the stairs.

Familiar faces greeted her with silent nods, quick smiles, and single toned "hullos". Her drippy entrance gained no more notice than that and was just as quickly forgotten over the next dealing of faded cards or the broaching of a new subject for thought in the midst of a hazy circle of cigarette smoke.

Slinks searched in vain for a dry towel and settled for 'almost dry and slightly pungent'. She scrubbed down her arms and through her hair, tousling and tangling with each vicious rub.

From across the floor a small lump under her pillow beckoned. A smile tugged at her lips.

_Slinks and the King…_

Slinks was not dumb. She'd had enough of an education to know her letters and numbers. She could write a little, spell her name and count to fifty with her eyes closed (though it's never quite been understood why such a feat was admirable). Slinks also knew important things.

She knew that New York stretched as far as you could see from the steeple in St. Patrick's and what you might see beyond that was the Atlantic Ocean or Canada or England: the _rest _of the World. It was big and all the pictures she'd seen told her it was pretty but after much thought and much mulling Slinks had decided that Brooklyn was surely better than any of that.

She also knew that you can swim and play between the sandy shores of the East River but you are never to ingest any of its contents. That lesson was learned well by Robert Ruby, a kind-eyed boy who worked down by the docks. He had once accidentally swallowed some of the water and, by the next morning, had turned a funny green color, gone extremely sweaty and visited the washroom every time someone even mentioned food.

Slinks unfortunately knew that the boys who worked the presses were large and greasy and liked to whisper rude things in girl's ears and tug at their skirts. Fortunately they never messed with Slinks. At least a few knew personally her rather able right hook and the rest just took the black eyes as enough warning.

But most importantly, Slinks knew that you never, ever, unless specifically instructed (and sometimes not even then), touched and/or stole anything that belonged to Spot Conlon.

Now about a great deal of things it can be truthfully said that Slinks most definitely was not dumb. However, when it came to Spot, Slinks was the biggest mess of dumb anyone could possibly get. It wasn't really her fault of course, the big lug did ask for it. He was a bit crude at times. And he could be very bossy. Not to mention, he let the whole 'King of Brooklyn' thing go to his head just a little too much.

(Incidentally, Slinks had kindly alerted Spot once that his head seemed a fraction larger than the day before and he should beware, lest it float away when he wasn't expecting –though one never really does expect those kinds of things. Spot was not amused nor was he particularly appreciative at this warning because at that time his cane was nowhere to be found and he was quite preoccupied with its loss.)

Simply, Slinks liked to do just what everyone knew they shouldn't: aggravate Spot. This mission included an assortment of pranks and rebelliousness and, most preferable, stealing.

Every other day or week or month, just when he'd least expect it, he'd turn to find his cap gone… or his cane… or suspenders. On one occasion he'd discovered all his clothes gone and spent an entire hour searching -in his worn long johns no less- before finding them shamelessly displayed in the front window at the bookstore up the street.

Slinks regarded her best of successes to be when the entire population of Brooklyn were yanked into Spot's frantic searching. The whole borough would be turned inside-out, over and in; pulled from here to there, up to down. It was a true statement that if Spot was unhappy, Brooklyn was unhappy (though most outside of a certain vocation and age had no idea why they felt so). And with each day of fruitless searching Spot would turn a deeper shade of red and the cloud which hung over the borough would look just a little blacker.

And Slinks would watch the chaos unfold, glee dimpling her cheeks.

_A Moment of Calculation…_

On this rainy afternoon that was very soon to be the worst day of Slinks life, her newest captive was none other than Spot's cap. This possession, possibly most prized of the boy, had come into his life at the bottom of a box of donations given to the Refuge during his first of many stints for general misbehaving and lawlessness. It had since served with him through two borough wars; survived the dock fire of 1897; joined him on the carriage ride across the Brooklyn Bridge with Governor Roosevelt; and had been snatched, to date, a total of fourteen times by the famous Slinker.

Everyone knew it was Slinks who dared tempt Spot's fury. And Slinks was sure the 'King of Brooklyn' didn't have _that_ big of a head as to not, eventually, figure it out. But it was fun to pretend and continue on; the excitement, the thrill of the chase and all that. (And, secretly, Spot didn't really mind the futile searching for days on end only to find his items returned, suddenly and safely, one morning on his bed, as though they had never left. It served as a worthy distraction during the long summer days and kept a humor in his veins.)

However, two factors should be duly noted. First is that a cap is primarily a head covering. Second is that on this, the worst day of Slinks' life, it was raining quite furiously.

Adding together these two elements, and calculating also Spot's prolonged and generous patience, as well as the inevitability that one day Slinks' constant meddling would someday come back to haunt her, a grand total is figured. Simply put, the stormy sum was equivalent to the result of a cat suddenly and quite violently tossed into a deep body of water: predictably, and very, unpleasant.

_The King and the Thief…_

If Spot Conlon's presence commanded attention, his strong gaze and level voice held it.

For years he'd ruled the rag-tag group of orphaned, runaway, and down-on-their-luck kids that Brooklyn had to offer. As a leader Spot had been tried and tested and he'd never wavered.

He'd fought. He'd starved. He'd bled. He'd wept.

He'd seen death. He'd held hope. He'd loved and he'd felt hate, inside and out.

But none of it, nothing past could compare to the new and burning fury he felt now as he stormed into the bunk room, soaked and fuming. His hair was plastered to his face; rain water dripped into his eyes. His clothes hung heavy on his thin frame, weighed down by the torrent that had engulfed him.

"SLINKS!" His voice boomed. It echoed. It shook the very foundations and froze every heart.

Slinks sat bolt upright and slammed her nose to the wooden slats of the bunk above her. She saw the stars and felt a vessel of blood break at the bridge of her nose. Through eyes that stung she peered out at her soaked leader while her hand quickly shoved his cap into the back pocket of her damp britches.

She attempted an innocent grin but it was lost as she pawed at her nose and the blood that ran freely.

"Conlon. You r-rang." Her confident (and nasally) tone tripped and stumbled and fell flat. Truly she felt anything but confident. That Spot was wet and angry and sore and ready for some justice for the misfortune he had thus far received was felt by everyone.

To be truthful, his problem didn't entirely lay with the prankster but it would be an ill move to try and tell Spot such. His day had already involved chasing some cocky kids from Queens out of Brooklyn, being chased in return by an overly eager beat cop, the vicious attacking by a wicker basket filled with dirty laundry, and, of course, rain and no cap.

Spot took three soggy steps forward, stopped, and raised a finger at the girl.

"I want it. Now." Each word hung in the air, drug out into a deep, single-tone sentence of terror.

Slinks looked at her leader, her king, with eyes wider than they'd been in her life. She swallowed hard. Her hand wavered to her back pocket and, after a long moment of indecision, brought the captive into view.

It was twisted and crumpled, a sad memory of its recent former glory. Spot looked to it longingly. His fingers twitched and clenched into fists then stretched open again.

The water dripping from Spot's clothes became the only sound. No one spoke; no one dared. Everyone stared at the pair, who were but a tantalizing reach from each other, and waited.

Slinks' mind shoved thoughts into quick circles. They went round and round and round. Each worry and plan and fear and trick whirling like the wooden Merry-Go-Round in park. But this feeling was far from merry and the spinning was making her nauseous. She didn't like the look in Spot's eyes. It whispered of something Slinks thought only could mean firm and final retribution. And Slinks really truly wanted none of that.

So, because it seemed the right thing to do at the moment, or perhaps the only, or just the best, Slinks did what anyone would surely do in such a situation: she ran.

For her reputation, her precious pride and hide, and in the name of every delicious prank she had ever pulled, Slinks just ran.

She burst across the floor... past damp newsboys (shocked)... past Spot Conlon (frowning)... down the stairs (two at a time)... through the door and out into the rain. A fist as tight as iron gripped the tattered cap. She ran and didn't stop. She ran until her face was numb from the rain and the cold and her chest ached and burned. She ran till she felt as if she could run no more and then she ran still.

Slinks ran until she was sure no one could have followed (which they hadn't, they were still frozen to the floor, staring at their leader, who was strangely quiet) and then she stopped and leaned against the cold brick of an alley wall.

She was cold and wet and breathless. Her nose ached and her legs throbbed. She took a few quick, deep breaths. She thought of the hat and her flight and the rain and Spot and then, perhaps because it was the only thing left to do, she let the worst curse she could muster rumble from her lips. It wobbled from her throat strangely, dived into the downpour of wetness and was swept away down the street and into the darkness.

_We Pause..._

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_Author's Note: _This started out small, I swear. Honestly, I haven't the foggiest how this big scary monster got here. And the worst part is there's more! Ack! Well this _is_ supposed to be the worst day and we've only just touched the tip of the iceberg. Mwuah. Until I return again, all I ask is for feedback, good and/or bad... though I really really like the good kind. It makes me very happy. 


	2. Chapter the Second

_Disclaimer:_ I claim words, not Newsies. Everything belongs to people and personages that are not me. Sue not. / Sid is mine. All mine. I do like Sid a lot so please do not take him. :)

_Dedication:_ Again, this tale belongs to Ali. I know Slinks isn't completely right; I am fairly certain she suffered a few personality bumps on her way from your head to mine. However, I still hope you like this humble attempt. You are and will forever be one of the most fantastico people I have ever known!

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_To Slink: A Definition…_

Without a doubt, Slinks felt completely and utterly uncomfortable.

Whether it had been hours or days since she'd left the Lodging House –with her tail tucked firm between her legs- she didn't know. It felt like an aching hole of forever.

At first she'd cowered in that alley, contemplating her return. But something –definitely not a fear of Conlon, though contradicting such presumptions would surely be a hard task in light of her recent reenactment of 'One Who Flees in Panic'- moved her down the puddle-covered streets and away. Her feet took her blocks, into dark doorways and over grassy parks. They took her past shop fronts and massive looming factories, where sodden gray smoke swirled against a sodden black sky. She trudged in wide arcs and wobbling 'straighter' lines; over and around, slowly and sometimes painfully, her hands in her pockets and her head hung low.

The gray and wet had crumpled her clothes and spirit, bulging and dragging them down until they sloshed with every step. Before long she found them both to be disinclined to be led onward. The entirety of her face agreed wholeheartedly. It ached and throbbed and she was sure her nose was swelled up much larger than what she considered suitably attractive. Her hair hung limp and sopping, getting in her eyes and aggravating the corners of her mouth. Her cheeks felt soggy with rain and raw to the touch.

And so she halted, under the wide awning of a bookstore –long since closed when the weight of rain sent potential profits hovering a little below financially acceptable- and waited out the last grumbling efforts of the waning storm. The dark blue fabric made a funny sort of gasp when the rain pattered hard against it.

Presently the onslaught slowed its vicious campaign over the city and the rain began soften and then eventually disappeared; the storm was moving onward. A mist now hung in the early evening air and the approaching dark of night was tinting the corners of the sky only just emptied from the receding storm clouds.

Pooled raindrops slipped lazily off green leaves and down lampposts. Water amassed into uneven concaves of earth. And, like mice venturing timidly out of their hole after the cat had given up its proposed vigil for a saucer of hot milk, people were beginning to edge out into the damp world. They sidestepped puddles and glanced occasionally at the suspicious looking sky from beneath their wide black umbrellas.

Slinks felt suddenly crowded and out of place with her drowned appearance.

_Good Intentions..._

She had always intended to consider buying an umbrella but the investment had never seemed so significant. Until –perhaps- now.

(In fact, the time she had actually set out to purchase such a sensible item, a shiny new set of marbles had taken her attention completely: called out seductively and snagged her with their perfect roundness and colorful shimmer. She already had an impressive looking sling shot, one that paled only slightly to Spot's own weapon in both size and potency. Visions of these tiny orbs flinging through the air and catching that same suspender-wearing individual by surprise had carried what little savings she had to her name to the clerk behind the counter before she knew what was happening. She had left the shop an umbrella-less girl but a happy girl -and had continued in that happiness a few times before those shiny marbles suspisciously disappeared.)

Yet, it was not her lack of rain-retardant canopy that was her problem. Her problem was simply that, when moisture was falling in any shape or speed or time of year, she shouldn't be outside. Under it. Covered in it. Instead such weather should be endured by a great deal of lounging in bed and/or devious scheming or deep in a cigarette-hazed game of poker. This was the Slinker's way of things; her own personal religion. But today had thrown an unforeseeable wrench into the works and now the whole perfect machine had skidded into a steaming, useless mess.

And it was because of the cap.

_Of Collusions and Confidantes..._

Slinks turned a condemning glare to the hat in her clenched fist. She did want to blame it and, as silly as it would sound to her later, blaming the brown bundle of soaking cloth seemed perfectly acceptable at this juncture of her life. The cap (A respectful correction: _Spot's_ cap) had become the bane of her existence. The thorn in her side.

It was the Apple in the Garden of Eden and she had been just been a silly, hungry Eve.

Slinks squeezed her fingers tightly around the cap. It squished under the pressure, oozing stale-colored wetness. It looked nothing like a bad luck charm (In fact it looked fairly innocent; a sad, frightened bystander.) but Slinks knew now it was. It needed to be destroyed.

And she stood, dripping wet on a street corner, pondering just the best way to destroy the nuisance. Her mind was whirling with possibilities, each one more elaborate and fabulous than the previous. Each one inching her a little further away from rational thought.

Within a few minutes a complex scheme had been concocted. Some parts were tricky and it was, overall, quite dangerous but it was a doable plot; the roll of chicken wire would be easy enough to find but the llama was going to be difficult.

And then she shook her head, collapsing her outlandish plan and sweeping it under her mental rug.

A drop off the Brooklyn Bridge would do the trick well enough. Plus, llamas, she'd heard, were notoriously moody.

It was then she heard her name being called or more appropriately _hollered_. Repeatedly and with the hint of a growing eagerness. Slinks looked up, blinked and squinted, and noticed the figure.

It was a small figure but only because it was so far away, a block down and on the other side of the street. Her current thoughts and fear bent the sight and for a moment it looked like someone Slinks wasn't sure she wanted to see. Someone who may have been wanting their cap back and probably _before_ she tossed it in the East River.

Her heart did a little leap then, dancing to the familiar tune of sudden alarm she'd known so recently. But at the back, barely discernible, a silly little harmony had joined in. This was a beat very different and slightly confusing. And Slinks wondered, a good deal of time afterward, why, when she discovered the approaching figure was not, in fact, Spot Conlon, she felt just the tiniest bit disappointed.

(The answer did come to her finally after many sleepless nights and confounded days. What she found was strictly between her and her Maker, with whom, in light of recent deductions, she was supremely displeased for making her a female, a fact which included every irritation and fuzzy emotion that went with being a part of such a species. It should be noted perhaps that she could not look Spot in the eye for a very long time without going an admirable shade of red and having to excuse herself with a sorry, have to be elsewhere, goodbye.)

When the waving figure was close enough to be identified, Slinks offered an unconscious grin.

It was Sid. And, even in her calamitous state, she was happy to see him.

_Sidney Robins…_

Sidney was a boy whose ancestry was everywhere and essentially, nowhere. He was a boy of all peoples simply because he had none of his own. His features were plain and held nothing indicative of any family that had shuffled onto New York's welcoming soil. He was a mutt; a heritage painted upon zealously and with a bright shade of every color imaginable.

Yet, truthfully, no one really dared to spend much time or thought on Sid's facial features, as pleasant as they were. No, they were much too busy being intimidated by the rest of him. Usually they wondered whether or not they should run for cover.

It was really an insult to say that Sid was a just large boy. At seventeen he already had quite a lot in common with that of a small ox. Sid was tall, wide, and strong.

His great vastness must have come from somewhere and everyone had their theories. An extreme growth spurt; one too many helpings of his mother's Grebbel; the last of a forgotten race of giants… the list really had become endless, and, at times, incredulous. But whatever the reason for his six foot plus massive shape and beneath all the apprehension his daunting presence stirred up in the unsuspecting heart, Sid was simply Sid: a gentle, humorous soul who was not capable of any insincere word or deed.

Sid worked in a factory with great machines that did something equally great and imposing. He was a solid asset to the working force and was always ready to prove himself. His enthusiasm usually won him a smile from the man with the checklist and covered him in a layer of well-earned grease, much to his ever-cleaning mother's chagrin.

Slinks had known Sid for a while though the exact date and circumstances of their introduction were lost to her. Sometimes he would visit the Lodging House or participate in a lazy summer swim off the docks. He didn't gamble or smoke and he was kind to all the girls –even mischievous ones like the Slinker- to an extent that made one suspect his seven sisters and his mother's fearsome-looking rolling pin had shaped quite an influence.

As he approached Slinks now, on the walk, in the darkening afternoon, she realized it had been quite a while since she'd last seen him. He looked much the same as always. He wore a pair of overalls, the straps of which were frayed over a shirt that looked as though it might have been too small three sizes ago and was barely holding together over his arched shoulders. His blonde hair was misted through with the lingering dampness; he was still hard at work for the worst of the storm. His eyes were a darker brown than she remembered but they sparkled with genuine happiness as he saw her.

The happiness quickly turned to concern the closer he came, taking in her thoroughly disheveled condition.

He came to a quick stop a foot from her and raised a thick dark eyebrow. And then he spoke, his voice as deep as one would expect.

"Just tell me there's a good story behind _that_." He gestured pointedly to her swollen nose.

Slinks gave a quick glance at the hat in her fist, then straightened her gaze toward her towering companion and nodded, a slight arch to her lips.

"Join me somewhere dry and warm and I'll let youse decide for yourself?"

Sid grinned, her shadowed response enough of an intrigue, and he offered one thick forearm. Someone had presumably told him this was the sort of thing a gentleman did when accompanying a lady to a destination.

On any normal day Slinks would have protested with a disapproving look and even an offended slap but in view that today was filled with anything but normal occurrences, she bit back her automatic response and slipped her hand around his waiting arm. Yet, if it meant anything at all, she did so with the lightest of touches and stayed a good foot from his body, supporting her own walk entirely. After all, her internal traditionalist smugly reasoned, one could not completely forget oneself… no matter what the prevailing circumstances.

_A Spot of Unrest…_

Back at the Lodging House, Spot was having a horrid night.

It had been unusually quiet after Slinks' hurried departure and if Spot'd spent a few moments thought on it, he probably wouldn't have liked the silence. As it was, his mind was a good distant away, concentrated wholly on a girl who, at the very moment, was settling into a warm booth in a dimly lit restaurant, a giant of a boy taking a seat across from her.

This concentration in itself was a bit of an unsettling experience and for one of the few times in his rather distinguished life, Spot Conlon was at a complete lost. He wasn't quite sure what had happened just a few hours before, where it had all really started, or even just what was happening now.

Spot Conlon was fairly sure that his troubles were rooted in the day the Slinker had showed up on his proverbial doorstep and that, over time, every other troubling instance stemmed in some way from that same root. Incidentally, he wasn't really sure how that happened either; one day she was just there, selling papers and making the Lodging House her home.

Slinks -as she had proclaimed herself- wasn't a girl in the conventional sense; more girl _shaped_ and then in every other way possible, boyish. She was a force to behold, something like a hurricane rushing helter-skelter on dry land. She was in as many –sometimes more- tussles as some of the boys under Spot's command; she wore nothing that proved she had any sort of a figure; and her head was so wholly linked with all things mayhem and prankish that it sometimes downright frightened the otherwise unflappable King of Brooklyn.

In ways he didn't fully understand, he admired Slinks. Or was at least intrigued by her.

Yet, at this moment, he was steaming full speed on a muted sort of annoyance and utter confusion.

Something had to be done. This –whatever it was- had to stop. But he knew it wouldn't. There was no power alive or conjured that could stop the Slinker, not completely at least. She had a mind that way. She would wiggle or wheedle her way out of whatever he would devise and the chaos would continue onward, the relentless force of an eternally persistent imagination.

But then, he had a thought. It was a good thought, he realized, born out of justice and finality and a rather commendably endurance. It was a slightly cunning idea, he mused, and a little unethical but had good potential for becoming a great plan.

And so Spot dared to plan.

Presently he was on his feet and striding purposefully through the bunkroom and down the steps. Only a few heeded his departure with mild interest. Had they noticed, however, the strange smile adorning their leader's face, internal alarms would have gonged a great deal louder than mildly.

Yet as it was, Spot exited the Lodging House without the slightest of impediments, in search of Slinks. The mottled group of newsboys lounged lazily in the odd silence, oblivious to their King's mad spinning mechanisms of thought and the way those same thoughts had just clicked into perfect place.

_We Pause (again)..._

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_Author's Note: _It's been just too long since I updated. And though I have some good tales of worthy distractions, there really is no excuse. So all I can offer is a sincere apology and beg forgiveness. I beg. Apparently this story will be going on much longer than I intended but I liked where this was at for the moment (finally; you don't know just how many revisions to which this poor story was subjected!) and so the finale will hopefully be in the next addition and --again: hopefully-- much sooner added than this chapter. :)  
On a side note: my punctuation leaves something to be desired; I didn't pay as much attention as I prolly should have to the punctuation do's and don't's in school. So if something is wrongly punctuated, please try and forgive me for that too. If you can't, I accepted any and all furious teachings.  
Also, Grebbel is something my aunt and my mom sometimes make. It's German in origin as far as I know. It's fried bread dough and often served for breakfast with butter and brown suger. Yum.


	3. Chapter the Third

_Disclaimer:_ I claim neither hide nor hair. Only words, as feeble as they may be.

_Dedication (and apologies):_ Four years later. I don't feel it's worth the wait. And honestly, I don't know what took me so long. I had this ending in mind since the beginning, but I just could never reach it satisfactorily, I guess. My inner perfectionist demanded and hence the years past. Well, all that is behind now, as I display, with a mumbled sort of pride: The Final Chapter. Boy, oh boy. Ali, forever, this is for you. I hope you like this ending... and that it still means something, arriving late as it is.

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_Once Upon a Time…_

There was a cap. It wasn't an important cap; or especially unique. At the time of it's making there were many caps fashioned just like it and they proclaimed their ordinary, everyday use from shop windows and atop any heads they were deemed -for a small price- to perch.

The particular cap of our story was a brownish thing, almost indistinguishable from it's relations, and taken from its shop shelf by a fast-paced youngster who whistled at girls and liked to spend many an hour poking about in smoke-laden alley-entry establishments. The cap's time with this youth was adventurous (albeit the smoke did begin to have an adverse effect on it's threads) yet short, for it was in the worst of spring weather that the boy decided to end his wandering ways and settle on the path of true love, proposing to a beautiful girl at the very same moment a great wind separated cap from distracted owner and tossed it down the damp streets of Brooklyn.

Whether the proposal was accepted or not we shall never know as the hat was swiftly tossed more than a block's distance to land in a puddle before it was almost as swiftly retrieved by an elderly woman who gave it a gentle -and much needed- washing and gifted it to her husband. This man was a good deal less adventurous and his white hair would often prickle, but he was kind to the cap and never mistreated it. The cap enjoyed his time with his new owner and when the end finally came it felt (if one were to offer the thing a chance to express such a faculty) quite proud to have been the old man's sole companion at the time of his departure from this life into the next.

Change barrels onward and the cap spent the next few years at the bottom of several boxes and exchanged by grimy hands for grimy money until it was eventually donated by a benevolent lady to the House of Refuge. By then the cap had aged considerably. It was a little worse for wear. Tossed carelessly in amongst other threadbare attire and waiting perhaps for the next in it's cycle of discard (or maybe for it's last hurrah), it was wrestled free and seized with a fervor it hadn't felt since that first day in the sunlit shop.

The cap was raised from it's box to eye-level with someone who was very small and terribly unkempt. For a moment the two -boy and cap- stared at each other. The cap couldn't help but feel a little insecure: it's brim was bent, a seam had split at the back, and around the top, at its button, it was frayed. A youth such as this before it would not want something so shabby.

But something wonderful happened. The cap was shoved down over those unkempt blonde locks and came to rest securely against a pale brow. A word was then uttered, a simple word that filled the cap with elation and rejuvenation.

"Poifect," said the boy.

And so was the cap joined to his new owner, the future King of Brooklyn, Spot Conlon.

_And Now…_

It was the very same cap that poked at Slinks' conscience.

Stuffed into her back pocket, the thing was causing a terrible ruckus against her common decency and was making her more uncomfortable by the moment.

Hunkered into the faded and cracked red upholstery of the farthest and most out of sight booth in Arnold's, across from a giant of a boy who had been waiting -patiently- for a rather elaborate story about red noses and such else that was sure to follow it. Obligingly, Slinks tugged the thing loose and laid it sheepishly on the table. Silently, she leveled out its crumples and gave its crown a little pull. It didn't look half bad for all it had endured. Yet, despite her compassion, it did not seem to regard her with any greater respect and did, if at all possible, seem instead to glare at her with a perfectly picturesque distain. Sid raised his black eyebrows, a few fairly accurate speculations pulsing in his head, but he remained silent, knowing there was a little more yet to come.

Slinks toyed and fussed with the brown-speckled cap a moment longer and let it fully insult her for a good handful of minutes before flicking it across the table.

She frowned.

"I stole that," she grumbled dejectedly, her fingers moving unconsciously to feel out the edges of her once-painful and now-numb nose.

Sid looked intently at the evidence before him. He didn't touch it. He didn't even have to ask who it was that had been the unlucky victim of his companion's robbery. One glance was enough to know.

The cap belonged to Spot Conlon.

He looked from Slinks, in all her disheveled glory, and back to the hat. And then, he began to laugh.

He laughed loud. And long. And loud.

Faces didn't just turn to the corner booth, they snapped up and sideways and they stared.

Slinks turned a deathly pale and sunk swiftly into the shadows of her booth. Sid was oblivious; he rocked on with laughter.

"What is so _damned _funny!" Slinks exclaimed furiously over the ledge of the table. She'd crushed herself so far from view she was now practically sitting on the floor.

Sid attempted to calm his humor and sounded something like a maddened bull snorting.

Within a few minutes he had regained his composure and it was a few minutes more before Slinks felt it was safe enough to be visible again. Thankfully, the other customers had since turned back to eating their food and away from the confusing outburst.

"Oh, Slinks." Sid shook his head, a smile cemented to his lips.

"Don't say meh name aloud!" She whispered fiercely, embarrassed and guilty. She cast Sid her most venomous glare. He was unaffected.

"Well," he swallowed in a heavy breath, the action making the booth look even smaller comparatively. "That explains quite a bit."

_Admiration… _

There were not many that would dare to tempt the wrath of Spot Conlon. Not if they valued everything near and dear. Conlon was something legendary. He was horror stories told to misbehavers and troublemakers; tales that brought even the stoutest of hearts to quivering, woeful heaps.

Now, whether the stories were true or simply rooted in a very simple situation that only became something bigger and grander with each fevered retelling was unknown and, quite frankly, unnecessary. The point of such stories isn't so much the story itself but the reputation it gathers behind it.

And Spot Conlon's reputation, though fueled perhaps by both myth and truth, was solid and irrefutable, a fact the boy-king enjoyed a little too much.

Yet, in the midst of his reign stood Slinks: She Who Dared.

Where others feared and fled, Slinks remained bold. She was reckless, admittedly, though her defiance was born from spite than bravery, she remained steadfast as if her mission where blessed by the heavens.

And for that, Sid found himself admiring the girl. At least enough to offer her the best respect he could under the current circumstance and keep his chuckles to himself as she recalled the tale of her most recent thievery and subsequent events.

However, something nagged at him in the undercurrent of her story. There had been a change, something slight and almost unrecognizable had shifted since he had last seen the girl. It was no more than a light in her eyes, or a blush of color to her cheeks, something -if under the glance of a different eye- easily dismissed. But Sid was more intuitive than any ordinary factory boy.

The answer came quickly: completely implausible and yet so very possible. He had no sooner pasted a name to the glimmering chance when the promised food was delivered, hot and inviting and much preferable to the violent kind of response a half-foolish opinion would get him. A musing such as this required tact.

And so, for the moment, conversation was hushed and the thought was pushed beneath the table, where it remained, with the stolen cap, all but forgotten.

_Meanwhile, Somewhere in Brooklyn…_

Spot Conlon had not forgotten.

_Goodbyes and…_

Her stomach full, and her outermost extremities warmed and refreshed, Slinks handed over her sincere thanks to the large boy. It was a bit awkward, as she had no great experience in that area, but she put forth a commendable effort.

Sid made no moves to turn away as Slinks said goodbye. He shook her smaller hand in his large paw but lingered under the overhanging of Arnold's, looking down at the girl-newsie queerly. Instinctively Slinks fingers reached self-consciously to her nose.

Sid grinned then, her action breaking his intense stare. "It ain't that," he assured her.

"It ain't what?"

"It ain't what you think it is," he responded, slowly choosing his words. "In fact, I think you haven't even evah thought of it once. But it's the truth, as sure I know the sun is yellow."

Slinks felt dizzy. The boy wasn't making any sense. Talking in riddles. Must have been the altitude, thinner air and everything. She made motion to speak and Sid shook his head.

"You'll figure it out," and he imparted meaningfully -ambiguously- and turned away with a wink and a tune on his lips.

Slinks watched him go. Her head cocked to the side and she let out a low whistle.

_Yup, thin air._

_A Weight Like the World..._

Slinks had seen a picture once. It was a statue of a man who carried the Earth on his back. As Slinks walked the long way back home, she thought on this man, "Mr. Atlas" she thought he might have been named, and how he must have felt.

In the picture the man had not been standing tall; he was bent and drooped. The Weight was heavy on his back. Too heavy for him to carry alone. Slinks knew what that was like.

Since she had left Arnold's (more notably: after Sidney's cryptic final words), each step she took felt a sluggish and heavy movement. Every corner she rounded was a brief success, the next her distant goal. There was a pressure at her shoulders; a tightening, and a heaviness. It spread into her neck and down her arms and crawled through her ribs to knot in her stomach. She carried not a large orb of land and water, but a small and pale and bony thing, unmistakably Spot Conlon-shaped.

And it was driving her into the ground. One step at a time.

Still, she persevered. The man in the picture hadn't anyone else around him for it was his burden to bear. And so she would bear hers.

And to bear meant she needed to face him. So Slinks finally turned her tired feet toward home. As she walked, she thought.

In fact, Slinks' mind was literally on fire, the events of the day crackling and popping over embers stoked by a growing and so far nameless, suspicion.

She thought of Brooklyn, now her home and trusted friend though once a scary new acquaintance. She remembered the first time she'd seen a newsboy, the troubles she'd gotten into as a young girl, the things that led her to the Lodging House and her first meeting with the King of Brooklyn.

How she had ached to topple him off the apple crate he sat on, knock that superior look right off his face!

He was the beginning of it all really. She hadn't been a pranking sort of girl before she'd met Spot. She'd been a bit of a con and could sneak about in the most impressive ways but the idea to pilfer from a person just to see the look on his face was something that had never before crossed her young mind. Looking back she realized that her first ever prank had been on that precise human: she'd slipped away with that stupid rusty key and tied the cord around the House's cat's tail. The cat, named Arthur, was a particular thing and fancied himself fond of everyone except Spot, at whom he would hiss and claw with a joy-like twitch of his orange tail at every given opportunity.

Sudden understanding flamed alight a forgotten year-long hatred of the color red, her recurring prejudice against those who carried canes (reflecting, in shame, her occasional refusal of sale to such persons), and her rash telling in secret to Ruby Williams' little sister that she liked brown eyes, and not blue, best in a boy, out of pure spite.

Like a lighted wick, the flame burned on and turned to current events and cryptic words.

A possibility itched softly at the corner of Slinks' mind then, whispering a suggestion deep into her thought stream.

Slinks stopped walking. Her cheeks grew pink, then red, then murderous.

The implication! The indignity!

The final blocks fell swiftly beneath her running feet, fear and confusion and worry melting away under the heat of her terrible fury. Fists clenched, she approached the Lodging House, a nest of flickering lights and warm air at the end of the street.

She would show Sid. She would show them all.

_I do not love Spot Conlon!_

_A Spot (or two) of Fate…_

It is a sad occurrence when the perfect response is not thought of until long after the insult has been issued. Whether lying in bed, or in the middle of supper, days or even weeks after, the perfect words form and, should the offending party be present –and the situation relevant-, they would be put right and squarely in their place. Yet, as it is, the time has passed and the late reply is now perfectly useless.

This could not be said of Slinks. As she bounded up the stairs, two at a time (to be noted in much the same way in which she left), the perfect words coiled on her tongue. They prepared to strike, deep and venomous. She would look right in Spot's face. She would point at his funny little nose. She might even shake her prize in the air, for added emphasis and such. And then she would declare that she was not nor would ever be in love with Spot Conlon, and she would declare such aloud so that all would hear and know and never dare again impugn her honor with such absurd assumptions.

It would have been a perfect plan had not Fate intervened, for when Slinks stomped purposefully to Spot Conlon's bunk he was very specifically not in it.

Though thwarted, Slinks remained resolute: she would wait.

Slinks settled into her bunk. With her back to the wall and her legs crossed she marveled at herself. There was something to be said about a woman on a mission, and a pride about the way in which she had just viewed herself. A Woman. With a Mission. To think, just a few hours ago –had it really only been that short of time?- she'd been a cowering girl with a stolen cap. Now, she was a Woman.

Slinks waited, holding onto her fervor, her eyes glued to the stairway, and her ears ready for the slightest indication of the newsboy.

Happy would be the author to announce that Spot Conlon returned that very evening and received the what-for he perhaps didn't entirely deserve. But correct is the assumption that night rose full and passed silently into day without one solitary sighting of the boy.

A strong will can account for quite a lot but sleep has a way of winning over every ardent fight, even the feeble yet noble attempts by a now-woman on her mission.

It was morning when she awoke with the distinct jolt one usually has when they don't remember ever drifting off in the first place. The Lodging House alive with activity. Newises were getting ready for a day of selling, which had dawned in the wake of the prior day's rain to be bright and sunny.

Slinks rose slowly and rubbed the sleep and disappointment from her face. The sharp sting of her indignation had lessened some, as did the size of the swelling over her nose.

Her appearance alongside her familiars -Griff, Marks, Will, and others- was mostly unattended. They had either forgotten about the previous night's occurrence or cared very little now that the issue, for the moment, seemed over.

The Lodging House had emptied by the time Slinks realized her heart wasn't in selling. Though she loved the streets, and the embellished headlines, maybe a scuffle or two she could bet a few bits on, the day before had left her exhausted. More so than a night's fitful rest could rejuvenate. Besides, she had other, more pressing matters. Morning had arrived and a resolution had not been made. This left a sour taste in Slinks' mouth. One more day would lend itself to the growing epidemic of wild and unfounded ideas about romantic inclinations that could be downright damaging to a girl's reputation. It was her duty as a female and a citizen of Brooklyn to set things straight.

Not, however, smelling like the sewer.

The washroom beckoned and she heeded it's call. The water was hot and soothing and she emerged some unrushed time later a refreshed Slinker, her spirit of chase and justice emboldened once again. She dressed in record speed, an almost melodious tap to her feet as she gathered her things -including the cap, which she proudly settled upon her head, in a gesture of daring she hoped would deliver a very specific desired effect.

So buoyed by the day and the song in her mind that she didn't see the occupant of the bunkroom until she very nearly collided straight into him. With a shriek, Slinks jumped backward.

"Wick!" She exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest and the heart that was threatening to beat right out of it. "I didn't see youse there!"

Wick remained slouched in the doorway, looking not the least bit concerned that he'd almost caused Slinks a heart attack. He was a slight, sly looking boy, who's posture was always hunched and lips always muttering. Wick was ignored by most of the other newsies on account of his generally suspicious nature. He looked like one that couldn't be truly trusted, and this was mostly true. Anyway, Wick liked the solitude that a reputation true or imagined gained him. It usually positioned him safely away from interactions of any kind, with anybody.

That was not true today. Instead of being left alone to sell papers, Wick had been singled out to deliver a message.

"Spot wants to see you," he said, his dark eyes twitching as uncomfortably as he felt. Wick never really had it in him to do much of anything, especially if that anything meant telling a fire-brand, tornado of a girl that the object of her previous evening's ferocity was essentially summoning her like no more than a hired servant. But when your self-proclaimed and as-yet-undisputed leader gave you a command, consequences convinced you to step outside your comfort zone… and possibility into the path of a current disposition that one would rather steer well clear.

It really came down to which was the lesser of two evils, and Wick was fairly certain he might have chosen wrongly as Slinks' eyes darkened and flashed something great and thunderous.

"Where is he?"

Wick took a step wisely to the side and pointed vaguely in the nearest direction. "The docks," he said, and no sooner were the words past his lips that Slink was moved past him too, a thundercloud in her wake.

She was out the door and out of Wick's mind in the same moment. His thoughts were finally and happily again on other matters -and far away from the conclusion of a spat he neither understood, nor cared to understand- as he took up his discarded papers from the bottom of the steps and began his day's selling once more.

_Slinks and the King: Revisited…_

Spot was in his usual place at the docks. He was balanced on an upturned milk crate, one leg dangling lazily over the side. His can rested across his lap, much like a king's mighty scepter. He looked the picture of rest and relaxation.

As Slinks came near, a ray of sun flickered temptingly off the key that hung round his neck. It reminded her of her better days.

Spot didn't seem to notice her for a while (although it was likely he was just not making a show if it, given her not-quiet approach). Slinks however had no use for being ignored today and cut straight to the quick of the matter as soon as she was within earshot.

"Well," she huffed, coming to stand at the foot of his perch, "you rang?"

The corner of his mouth twitched at the familiarity of her words. The slight movement went unnoticed by his companion.

Spot had no intention of giving into her haste. Something had her worked up, fuming like a horse who'd been nipped by a pesky fly one too many times. There was a certain appeal in her obvious impatience, in this wild unpredictable Slinks. He rather liked the flush it brought to her cheeks.

Spot kept his eyes on the horizon.

"I watched the sun come up, Slinks," his voice was steady, calm. "Youse shoulda seen it, all purples and oranges."

Slinks huffed. He was sure she even stomped her foot. He turned to look at her, slowly taking in her damp hair and the nose that had turned a soft shade of purple itself overnight.

"Where didya go last night? I was worried."

His words hit Slinks squarely in the jaw. Slinks' face twitched and the sudden shock reverberated into her chest. Her furious resolve slipped ever so slightly, like a perfectly-tuned gear malfunctioning inexplicably, briefly. She regained herself brilliantly, but not fully.

"You… youse what?" Maybe she hadn't heard him correctly. Perhaps she still had water in her ears from last night torrential downpour Maybe she had a concussion…

Spot hopped off the crate and landed before her. Slinks took a step back, but Spot took the step too, keeping the small space between them.

"I've been thinkin'," he said, his voice softening, growing sincere. "All night I been walking around. Didn't sleep, I was just lookin' at the stars and thinking'… about you." His eyes fell on hers. In the morning sun they positively shone.

Slinks took another step back, and Spot let her have the extra room. And boy did she need it. Her chest felt tight; there wasn't enough air in all of New York to fill her lungs fast enough. He had to be joking. This was some sort of trick.

She regained the lost step, bringing herself into his personal space this time.

"What are youse playing at, Conlon?" She demanded, bringing out the big guns now, remembering her earlier (and well-rehearsed) speech. She pulled the cap from her back pocket and waved it in the air before his face. "I stole dis, remember? I is the bane of your existence-" (she'd heard the phrase once and was proud of herself for using it now) "-so what's all this starry-eyed nonsense that youse been thinking of me all night?"

Spot looked past his cap and didn't waver a pair a hurt-looking eyes from hers. "It ain't nonsense," he defied, the sincere ring to his voice once more. "It's the truth. Something's changed in me, Slinks. Something's changed bout me and you."

Slinks felt the sudden urge to sit down. She hadn't been expecting this. Not even in her wildest dreams (not that she'd ever had any sort of dream involving Spot Conlon like this before in all her born days, thank you) did she expect _this_. And what exactly was _this_? A trick or the truth?

She stared hard into his eyes. Spot Conlon was a bad liar. He never had found a use for mendacity in his reign and the lack of use made his few attempts quite telltale. Slinks prided herself on being able to gauge the exact intention behind her leader words and expression. She knew them even better perhaps then her own. But try as she could -and in spite of every contrary desire- she could not find a break in his honesty. It was all right there, laid out all over his face, as vulnerable as you please.

Then he wasn't lying.

And that meant that he-

It could only be then-

He was-

_Oh, boy._

_The Big One…_

There always comes that moment in life when one wishes they were prepared. Bags packed, hair combed, shoes tied: _really_ prepared. Truly, we imagine, when the time or circumstance arrives, we will meet it head on. Perhaps with a laugh or maybe a carefree grin, but always with that determined step and firm stance. Yet, inevitably, the time presents itself, and we find, in a sad pitiful sort of realization, that we are lacking. That we are completely and utterly unprepared for the very next occurrence of our lives. And so stood Slinks. Unprepared.

And Spot, the sole object of her every waking, erm- _pranking_ thought. The purpose of her nimble fingers and cunning mind, to pilfer and snatch and borrow and infuriate. She lived for it.

_Didn't she?_

And he, the King of Brooklyn, toppled to a red-faced peasant, sent to suffer through many days of indignation and exasperation. Surely he despised her for it.

_Didn't he?_

Slinks wasn't sure anymore. Of anything really. The world had turned head-over and everything was backwards and impossible. It was as if her mind had simply vanished, evaporated from her head. And the hollow place between her ears was filling slowly with a very Spot-shaped understanding.

He'd taken a step, just a small step into the bubble of space between them, filling it whole with his rain-doused scent, his threadbare shirt, his melting grin, his eyes the size of the sky, his hand that reached up to touch her face…

_Oh sweet Mary!_

He was a nose length away from her face. She could see his freckles on his nose and the soft wrinkles at the corner of his mouth. She could feel the sun off his tanned face. His blue eyes were on hers, and she felt as if the whole world was falling away.

_A Small Disclaimer…_

(Slinks might have had time to prepare herself. Had she been more cognizant of her surroundings -being her precarious position just a footstep from the edge of the dock- and her companion -a boy who's sincerity was being to slip-, she might have been able to prepare herself, to arm her wits. But as it was -and we are not to blame the girl, for she was, in fact, just a girl and these things are known to happen- Spot Conlon was just that good.)

_Rivers and Retribution…_

"Slinks?" His voice was honey, the sound of summer rain, the flutter of a heart.

Slinks blinked then, slowly. He was close. So close.

"Y-yes Spot?"

He flicked his eyelashes, those long glorious eyelashes, and then he smiled, a quick flash of teeth; the grin of a victorious captor.

"Thank you."

With a quick twist of his wrist, Spot recaptured his stolen property. His triumphant cry broke the air in the same moment that he gave Slinks a slight push. Slinks screamed as she toppled backward and into the river with an undignified plop.

The cold water rushed over her, seizing up her limbs and turning her flesh goose pimpled. She floundered for a moment in the dank depths before a mighty kick brought her back to the surface. She sputtered and stuttered, coughing up her swallowed water and wiping it from her eyes. Above her on the docks, Spot was bent over with laughter, great big tears of delight rolling down his cheeks.

"You doity rotten-" Water poured into her open mouth, pausing her tirade. She spit and gasped, slapping her arms on the water to keep afloat.

Spot roared on with laughter.

"You watch it, Conlon!" She shouted. "I'll get youse for this!"

Spot brushed the tears from his eyes and set one foot on a crate, peering down imperially over the edge. He was of course quite unconcerned by the threats of his adversary, who now looked something very like a drowned rat.

"Then I'll tell everyone you wanted ta kiss me."

His words fell like stones. Slinks' mouth dropped open and she gaped like a caught fish. She felt herself go red with embarrassment and then pale as a sheet.

It was a lie. A baldfaced lie. And yet, who would believe her against the King of Brooklyn?

"You… youse wouldn't," her voice squeaked a little.

Spot didn't answer, he only winked. A great wink of promise and pleasure. And then he settled his cap on his head and turned away. Slinks listened to his footsteps recede down the wooden dock. She bobbed in the water like a forgotten thing.

Spot had won. She'd made her final move, given her all into her final prank, and now, no more. To retaliate would be to destroy her dear reputation; every perfectly positioned foundation she'd painstakingly crafted would be toppled in one fell blow. Spot had her over a barrel, as it were. Dangling on strings like a puppet. Pity crept in before she could stop it and crinkled up the edges of her eyes with hot tears. She swam to the dock and clambered gracelessly up the broken slats. Once atop, she stood alone, water running from her heavy clothes and pooling at her feet. A tear rolled down her cheek, hidden among the rivulets of river water but present nonetheless. She was soaked and defeated.

But then she had an idea. Slinks had a beautiful, brilliant idea.

Threats be damned!

It was too good, too sweet. Too tempting. She was alive with excitement. A grand plan began to take form from and every inch of her hummed to do this prankster deed and secure her vengeance. It warmed her soul and brought a wicked smile bursting across her face.

_Spot Conlon, be warned, _she thought, starting off towards the Lodging House once more, her new and beautiful plan zinging about sweetly in her head.

"Youse can't keep a good Slinker down," she announced aloud, proudly, to herself and the world.

Neither had any cause to disagree.

The End

_(sort of…)_


End file.
